


Cutting A Deal

by Alkuna



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adopted Children, Drunkenness, F/M, Forsworn (Skyrim), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-11-07 10:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkuna/pseuds/Alkuna
Summary: Savari the Khajiit Dragonborn enters the sleepy town of Rorikstead for a hot meal and a warm bed. Once there, she is pulled into a rescue mission, and eventually meets the town drunk; Lemkil. The man is well known for being a drunkard, and for abusing his children. Then he says the wrong thing to the wrong Khajiit, and the Dragonborn decides to give Lemkil exactly what he wants... with just a little convincing.





	1. Chapter 1

Savari, the Khajiit Dragonorn, arrived in Rorikstead after spending time on the road and exploring the surrounding area. Thus far, nothing called her to the town save for a night inside, sleeping on a real bed, with good food and warm drink.

People were working the farms. Two children ran around with the energy of the young.

One of the girls, wearing a red dress, spotted the Dragonborn and raced over. Her eyes were fascinated as they traced over the Khajiit’s armor, “Hi! I’m Sissel! I wish I could be an adventurer like you, and go wherever I want.”

Savari smiled a little, “It can be fun,” she allowed, “but it is also dangerous work. You have to know how to use a weapon, spot traps, and watch for dangerous creatures.”

The little girl seemed ready to say something else, but then she hesitated. The hesitation continued for a few heartbeats too long, and then the girl dropped her eyes, seeming to have lost the nerve. Savari tilted her head slightly, and opened her mouth to encourage the child to speak. But as she gazed at the little girl, something caught her eyes; a bruise darkened the little girl's cheek. Savari's eyes narrowed in fury as she recognized the shape. Anyone with a hint of knowledge about brawling knew to strike with the knuckles of the index and middle fingers thrust forward, as they were the strongest knuckles. Someone had beaten this little girl... and knew exactly how to do it. 

The girl's gaze skittered fearfully away from Savari's own, perhaps spooked by the fury rising in them. Her gaze went to Jouane as he was walking by and scampered over to him instead.

As the Khajiit watched the girl chatter to the old man about magic, her claws biting into her gloved palm, another little girl approached wearing a green dress. By her identical appearance, this would be Sissel’s twin.

“My name’s Britte.” The girl in the green dress commented, and the Khajiit’s ears flicked back ever so slightly. Unlike the bright and friendly Sissel, Britte’s face was colder, less friendly, and held a touch of arrogance. “If you beat up my sister Sissel, I won't tell.”

Savari’s head jerked back just a bit, her cool blue eyes hardening slightly in outrage. “I do not beat up children!”

“Of course you do,” Britte retorted. “That’s what adults do.”

“No,” Savari's voice held a hint of a growl in it, “No they don't. No child should ever live in fear of being hit. You are her sister, are you not? Why would you want your sister to suffer?”

Britte's chin lifted arrogantly and commented, “I'm the older sister, by nearly five minutes. Sissel's barely worthy to walk in my shadow. And besides, if she gets hit, then I am less likely to. Since our dad can't even tell us apart most days, it's easier to just let him blame her for the stuff I don't want to do.”

The girl gave her hair a disdainful flip and sauntered off, calling over her shoulder, “Besides, we're useless brats. Just ask our father. It's not like me doing my chores will make it any better for either of us anyway.” 

Savari watched the girl wander away, speechless and appalled by the child's attitude. Finally, she sighed and turned toward the building that announced itself as the Frostfruit Inn. It had been a long trip to this town, and she needed food and rest.

.

The Frostfruit Inn had all the markings of a quiet little building, mostly frequented by the locals. That illusion shattered within a few minutes of the Dragonborn sitting down. Savari uttered a low curse of surprise, dropping her mug of mead as the door burst open, allowing a frantic looking Redguard to stagger in. He was supporting a Khajiit in merchant’s clothing, who was all but dead weight on his arm. Blood turned both their shirts red. “Help! Help us please! Does anyone have a healing potion? Please! I’ll pay!”

Savari was on her feet in an instant as the other civilians muttered and stared in surprise at the pair. No stranger to urgency, the black furred Khajiit was at their side in three steps, tugging a healing potion out of her knapsack and pressing it to the semi-conscious merchant’s muzzle.

“Drink!” Savari barked, glaring into the glazed yellow eyes until the jaws parted and the potion flowed down the merchant’s throat.

The merchant blinked, and then groaned softly, his eyes slowly growing more coherent, even as the Dragonborn helped the Redguard ease him onto a bench.

“Drink again,” Savari commanded, pressing another healing potion on the merchant. He obeyed, his gaze clearing as his golden eyes met her own sapphire blue ones.

“Thank you stranger,” the Redguard gasped, sinking onto the bench next to his merchant companion. “I have money, and I’m more than willing to pay for the potions...”

“Forget the pay;” Savari rumbled, “just tell me who you are and what happened to bring you and your nearly dead companion to this backwater town.”

“I’m Sorik. This is Ri’jhad, tribal leader for the caravan. They hired my team as guards. We were on the road with the rest of the caravan. We had left Markarth and were on the road along the Karthspire River when they attacked... Forsworn;” he spat the word in disgust, “a whole mess of them just descended on us. My men tried to fight them off, but were overwhelmed. I managed to escape with my friend here on one of the caravan horses, but he had gotten stabbed in the side by one of their swords.”

“I have been to that area,” Savari drummed her clawed fingers thoughtfully on the table, “It’s a long run from there to here… literally a mountain between the two. You would have had to go around or up some pretty steep paths to get over the top.”

“We went over the top. More hazardous, but faster,” Sorik admitted. “We would have gone back to Markarth, but the ambush was between the two of us and the road back.”

“Tsalira!” Ri’jhad gasped suddenly, straightening, “This one’s wife! She is back there! Please, we must go back!” He tried to rise to his feet, then gasped in pain and clutched his side. “This... this one must… hrrrgh… rescue...” The last of his sentence was lost in agonized gasping. Though the healing potions had taken care of the physical wound, his body was still reacting to blood loss and the shock of his injuries.

Savari grimaced and gave the clan leader a light shove, dropping him back onto the bench with almost no effort. He was in no condition to walk to a bed by himself, much less go running along the snow strewn paths. “Sit. I will go.”

“Are you sure, friend?” Sorik asked anxiously, “There were a lot of them, and there’s only one of you.”

The Dragonborn gave him a predatory grin that sent chills through the unashamedly eavesdropping townsfolk. “I assure you, I can handle them.”

.

The sun was setting by the time Savari turned a corner and saw what remained of the caravan.

The carts had been overturned, goods either stolen or strewn across the path. There were bloodied bodies everywhere… simply left where they had fallen. A few Khajiit lay alongside their fellow Redguards. She grimly noted that the Forsworn had given their own dead a courtesy denied the other two; though there were pools of blood that reeked of the Forsworn stench, those bodies, at least, had been taken back so that opportunistic predators didn’t get a taste.

Savari grimaced. If anyone were still alive, they would be well into the Forsworn’s camp by now, tied and probably in line to be sacrificed. Living sacrifices were particularly valuable to any Forsworn witch who wished to become a Hagraven. The Khajiit didn’t want to think about a coven of multiple Hagravens springing up in the Reach. There wasn’t much time left. The Khajiit made sure she had plenty of arrows, loosened her mace in its holster, and prepared to lay waste to the Forsworn camp.

The sounds of battle rang off the mountains. Screams. The clash of weapons. A Hagraven's enraged screech, answered by a snarling roar of “YOL TOOR SHUL!” and the dark night igniting in a red blaze of fire and light.

.

Karthspire Camp was a mess; bodies and blood were everywhere. The Hagraven lay, rather brutally killed, at the foot of the path leading to where the captives must be. The stench of burned Khajiit fur rapidly began to dissipate in the very early morning breeze, and spikes of magical ice on the wooden platform were already fading away.

Savari’s potions meant that all she felt now was the occasional ache or twinge where the magical and mundane attacks had scored.

All was silent but for the sound of water, wind, and distant, muffled sobbing somewhere above.

Wincing at the sight of herself, the Khajiit hopped into a shallow part of the river and washed as much of the blood from her fur as she could, before donning her armor and following the sounds of helpless fear.

She stepped up to the highest level of the camp and found a small cluster of people crammed into one of the Forsworn’s tents.

“Tsalira?” Savari called to them, “Is there a Tsalira among you?”

There was a moment of silence, and then a Khajiit woman stumbled forward, her fur so pale it was like freshly fallen snow.

“Tsalira, your husband, Ri’jhad, asked me to come find you.” Savari drew a dagger and gestured for the female to hold her arms out.

“Ri’jhad is alive?” the merchant’s wife perked up, ears pricked hopefully.

“He almost wasn’t. Came into Rorikstead supported by a Redguard fellow by the name of Sorik. Took two health potions to get him coherent enough to tell me what happened.” Savari knew that this group of people had suffered a great deal of loss and fear at the hands of the Forsworn. If she wanted them to cooperate, she needed to name names and speak freely and warmly to get through to them. “I offered to go find you, and bring you home. I know you’re afraid, I know you’ve lost friends and loved ones, but we cannot stay here. The blood from the Forsworn will attract everything with fangs for miles. We really don’t want to wait for them to show up for the leftovers.”

That seemed to motivate them; it took very little cajoling to get the group moving. But even so, the sun was starting to rise once more by the time the weary troop trudged back to the inn.

A small smile tugged at the corner of the Dragonborn’s mouth as Tsalira and Ri’jhad embraced, and then turned to their only other surviving Khajiit companion; someone Savari hadn’t been introduced to. Sorik and his two remaining men greeted one another in relief and shared weary words in low tones.

Her thoughts had turned longingly toward a long stint in one of the inn’s beds when Ri’jhad approached her. “Thank you friend. There isn’t much this one can ever do to repay you for what you have done. But perhaps this can compensate you somewhat.”

The Dragonborn accepted the bag of coins without bothering to count them. “I’m glad I was able to save some of you. I’m sorry that others weren’t so lucky.”

Ri’jhad bowed his head, “We will grieve, and we will try to salvage whatever we can.”

Savari collapsed into a bed only minutes later.


	2. Chapter 2

Savari ate hungrily while tucked into a corner of the Frostfruit Inn with her food. She wasn’t feeling particularly social right now, so a quiet corner seemed to be what she needed. Rescuing the caravan from a band of Forsworn had been exhausting, and though she had managed to save a few, the savages had already murdered several of their members. She was tired from the trip, as well as heart sore from the realization that she couldn’t save as many as she wished.

It was going on to early evening when a local named Lemkil came stomping into the inn. He barked his order at Mralki, then stormed straight over to Savari’s corner. He threw the wooden plate onto the table so hard that his wedge of cheese practically leaped off of it. A slab of cooked beef nearly followed suit. As the startled adventurer looked up, Lemkil plunked himself down next to her, uninvited.

“Do yourself a favor and don't have children. They're good for nothing at all,” the man snarled in greeting.

Savari's ears flicked back and she continued to stare. “What—“ _is your problem?_ She wanted to ask, but the man cut her off.

“I slave all day on my farm to put food on the table, and what do my daughters do? They chase each other like rabbits in a field.“ He snatched a half loaf of bread and bit into it so viciously that Savari briefly wondered if the man was related to a werewolf.

So this was the father of Sissel and Britte, she realized. “They are children,” Savari pointed out. “Children like to play.”

“Play?! There’s work to be done, and every time I try to get them to help, all I hear from them is endless complaining and caterwauling! If I let them, they would do nothing but sleep and eat! They’re useless!” Lemkil took a gulp of mead, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and peered at Savari with eyes that were far too bleary for a man who had only just taken a swig. His eyes developed a speculative gleam in them. His voice slid from an angry rant to oily friendliness, “Saaayyy… I heard about what you did for that caravan of outlanders. You’re an adventurer, right?”

“I am,” she agreed cautiously.

“Tell me… Tell me. Do you rough people up for money?” The man leaned closer and Savari’s nose caught the full blast of the man’s breath.

Her nostrils promptly closed in protest to the smell of what could only be described as some sort of rotgut concoction. “Sure, I brawl for a bet sometimes.” Her voice sounded a bit funny with her nose pinched closed, but the man didn’t seem to notice.

“Listen… Listen.” Savari wasn't sure whether he was repeating himself due to his level of intoxication, or whether he was trying to sound conspiratory. His volume barely dropped as he leaned in. “You gotta be strong, right? A good solid mace arm.” He gestured to her dominant weapon hand. He leered into her eyes, his own holding a low, cruel burning within them. “Give my brats a proper whollop to teach them to actually work for their living. There’s gold in it for you, of course.”

Savari’s ears went cold, then hot. She opened her mouth to take a breath to tell him what a sick slime bag he was, and regretted it. She could actually **taste** how soused the man was.

Even as she watched, he tipped back his bottle and drained it. Then he slammed the bottle on the table and bellowed at Mralki to bring him another.

 _Almighty Divines, this tosspot just slammed a drink that usually lasts the entire meal,_ the Dragonborn thought in horror.

“Think about it,” Lemkil encouraged her, with an alcohol fueled belch that singed her whiskers as surely as dragon fire. “Easy money. Just a few good blows to smarten up my brats. I’m just too soft on them, I guess. No beating of _mine_ seems to work.”

“I don’t beat children,” she told him flatly.

She wondered if challenging the man to a brawl and then beating _him_ into a smear on the ground would smarten _him_ up. But then something else occurred to her… could she get the children away from him? He hated his children, right?

Slowly she gave him a fanged smile, and rubbed her nose until it reluctantly reopened. As vile as his home brewed… whatever that stuff was... smelled, she wanted to have an accurate gauge on his level of intoxication. “But you’ve sparked my interest in something else. It sounds rather like you’d be done with your daughters entirely.”

“Hah! Wouldn’t _that_ be a blessing from the gods,” Lemkil sneered. “No more whining, no more complaining, no more… trouble from either of them. But I’m stuck with them. Stuck until they reach adulthood and I can shove them off onto some other poor slob who marries them.”

Savari’s cool blue eyes glittered slyly, as Mralki reluctantly set another ale in front of the man. “Mralki, please bring me an ale and…” she lowered her voice, “a few more for Lemkil, but at a slow, steady rate.” She pressed a few more coins into the man’s hand.

“With all due respect friend, we have learned long ago to limit Lemkil’s intake…” Mralki leaned closer to the Khajiit and murmured, “for his children’s sake. Not that it helps. We suspect he’s managed to create something that would strip the paint off of a building.”

Her eyes softened and she gave him a slow, sly smile, “Please trust me, Mralki. Bring a few more, slowly, and over time.” She repeated, and gave him a wink.

The innkeeper blinked a few times, then reluctantly closed his hand around the coins. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Khajiit. If whatever you’re planning goes wrong, it will be the girls who suffer.”

 _Not if I can help it,_ the Dragonborn thought, and turned back to Lemkil. She did her best to ignore the way her sinuses burned in his presence. “I do take on jobs for money, Lemkil my friend, but I sometimes deal in purchasing some… well, some things that may not be entirely… smiled upon by the guards, if you get my drift.”

The man blinked at her stupidly, his eyes growing more unfocused by the moment. “I’m not sure I follow. I don’t want a smuggled chair or a stolen dagger. Much too much trouble.”

“No, no, no.” Savari waved a hand carelessly as though to wipe such thoughts from the very air, “Tell me Lemkil, weren’t you ever told as a child to ‘Behave or the slavers would get you? Don’t wander off or the slavers will get you?’ Surely those whispers haven’t died away.”

“Oh psssshhh.” Savari winced as a long gust of his dismissive breath blew in her face, “They’re just baseless threats to make stupid children fall in line.”

“Are they?” Savari’s voice was laden with wondering skepticism, and Lemkil cast a bloodshot, considering eye over her. “Ahh, thank you Mralki.” Savari accepted the two bottles and set one in front of the Nord farmer with the air of a fancy business woman cutting a deal with member of high society.

It was a common Nord gesture of goodwill during business to buy someone a drink or two to encourage them to consider an offer. Lemkil would know this on some level, regardless of how sloshed he was. Savari was grateful she had dickered with merchants for more rare items in the past, and had some inkling of the customs among various people.

Lemkil slowly took the offered bottle and took a generous swallow of the alcohol; bloodshot eyes on the Khajiit.

“I completed a lucrative job, bringing back those caravaners,” she pulled out the sack of coins and made a show of counting them as they talked.

Five hundred coins.

“Good job. Very good pay. And yet…” She gave him a predatory smile, “Children are worth so much more. Easily trained, still malleable, and a long life of service before them. You **are** thoroughly done with your children, are you not?”

Erik, the innkeeper’s son, sat up sharply on the stool nearby and stared at Savari in undisguised horror before sliding off and heading for the door in a rather unsubtle haste.

_Ahh n’chow [damn]. I suppose I have some explaining to do with the villagers._

“Well…” Lemkil was starting to slur, and trailed off, thinking. It looked like hard work through the haze, from the way his brow furrowed. He took another deep quaff of his mead, and by the noisy sucking noise, had finished it too. He opened his mouth and uttered a deep, wet belch; worse than the last one.

The smell that rolled out of his gut made Savari’s gorge rise. She put her bottle to her mouth, but kept her lips tightly closed. She swallowed several times, more to settle her stomach than to keep up pretenses.

 _By the gods, what did he drink before now?_ She wondered in horror. _It’s almost impossible to get a Nord this deep into his cups without draining a barrel!_

“They’re lazy. They’re useless. None of your beatings seem to work,” she pressed, when she felt like she could speak again. “The villagers harp and harass you constantly over them. You have to listen to whining coming at you from two directions.” Another bottle landed before the Nord, Mralki giving Savari a dark look full of meaning as he did so. She gave him a tiny nod of agreement. She wouldn’t give Lemkil any more after this bottle. “Is it really worth all the bother? A generous sack of coins could convince someone with an actual work ethic to help you make your farm flourish. I can ensure that my... purchase... will be worth something even more when they get older.”

Lemkil’s alcohol bright eyes sank to the sack of coins on the table. The top was open, and Savari suspected the flickering of torchlight made their gleam quite hypnotic to the horrible man.

“I can take care of the petty details of the far off future. I’m making an investment now, for future return, while you get an immediate benefit starting as early as tomorrow, if you play your Septims right.” The Khajiit made an effort to make her voice smooth and purring.

That seemed to have done it. Lemkil’s hand darted out and he seized the money so enthusiastically that he actually scattered a few coins across the tabletop, “Friend! You’ve got yourself a deal! What do I need to do?”

Savari generously picked up the few scattered coins and handed them back over to him, “Easy now, easy. Don’t lose a single coin. Every last one is important for you.”

The coins clinked softly as they dropped into Lemkil’s hand. She wanted his hazy memories to be full of nothing but coins. Every, last, gleaming one of them. There would be no cries from him that he didn’t get his full pay.

Savari’s whiskers went forward encouragingly. “I’ll send for a carriage. Tell your girls to pack up, and that they’re going on a trip to Falkreath in style. Say a relative wrote to you and asked to see them. Don’t tell them anything else. If you can get their things packed up, and with a minimum of fuss, by tonight, so much the better. The less noise they make before they leave, the less those nosy villagers can protest, yes?”

“Right, right!” Lemkil nodded so enthusiastically that for a moment, Savari thought that his head movements and intoxication were going to tip him straight over to the floor of the inn. “You’re sure you won’t change your mind, friend? I don't want you to show up on my doorstep begging me to take the little brats back.”

“Trust me,” Savari’s eyes were as hard as diamonds, “I won’t be bringing them back. You will probably never see them again.” If the drunken slob noticed the way the tip of her tail vibrated like that of a snake about to strike, he either didn't notice, or else didn't know what it meant.

Lemkil barked out a harsh, if slurred, laugh, “Ha! Now that’s what I like to hear. They’ll be ready in a few hours. Make sure your carriage arrives on time.”

The farmer staggered out, with Savari following a few minutes later. Jouane Manette, Rorik and Erik were storming up to the inn, even as the door closed behind her.

“Savari, what in Oblivion do you think you’re doing?” Jouane barked in fury.

Blessing the fact that Lemkil had already staggered off toward his house, the Dragonborn leaped off the inn’s porch and clapped a hand quickly over the older man’s mouth. “For Mara’s sake, lower your voice!” she hissed, causing Rorik and Eric to pause in the middle of drawing their weapons.

The fury in Jouane’s eyes turned to confusion as the Khajiit named the Goddess of Love in her exclamation.

“I don’t want Lemkil to think twice about what he’s done. No, listen to me,” she growled softly but intently when Jouane tried to speak behind her hand, “That vile man beats and abuses his own children. You all know this. You all try to encourage him to be kinder. You all have failed. Now, if those children are left in his… questionable care, they will be lucky if he doesn’t end up killing them one night in a drunken rage. I want to get them **out** of the situation they’re in.”

Slowly she lowered her hand from Jouane’s mouth as Rorik frowned, “And this is achieved by you playing a slaver?”

“The alternative is killing Lemkil,” Savari said flatly. “Abusers don’t stop. They never stop as long as they have control over their victims.The children are coming with me, to my home just outside of Falkreath. It’s a beautiful place. It’s called Lakeview Manor, near Pinewatch, and the children will be safe there with my Housecarl and husband.”

The weapons slowly eased back into their sheaths. Savari’s sharp expression softened, “You are welcome to make the trip to visit the girls in the future if you wish. In fact, I encourage you to.”

Rorik’s gaze was considering as he looked at her. “I don’t know which side of brilliant you happen to be standing on, Khajiit… wicked, or good.”

Savari grinned and splayed her ears good naturedly, “Perhaps a bit of both? Lemkil is going to wake up tomorrow regretting everything from tonight… both in hangover, and in the loss of his children.”

Jouane finally smiled. “All right Khajiit… Savari. I’ll be taking you up on your offer soon. In the meantime, perhaps I can help you… officiate your little transaction. Erik, my boy, go get Ennis. His head for business will help tie this matter up... nice and legal and pretty.”

.

Lemkil groaned. By the Eight, his head hurt. He vehemently blessed the silence of his home. Neither of his daughters where whining at him for food, or shrieking as they ran about just outside.

By the slant of the sunbeams in his home, it was very late in the afternoon the next day. He could have sworn he still wasn’t sober yet, if the nauseating rocking motion of the floor was any indication.

He tried to sit up, and instantly regretted it. He lurched to the nearest bucket and emptied the meager contents of his stomach.

It took a long time before he could lift his head. It took even longer to realize that it really was... _too_ quiet.

Had the girls gone to harass one of the other villagers? He lifted his head and looked around. The place was… not in shambles, but something was off. Everything that had contained anything the girls owned was left standing open, thoroughly emptied. Their clothes chests were gone.

A letter lay folded on his bedside table, weighted on one edge by a generous sack of Septims. The soft gleam of the gold coins was strangely familiar, but he couldn’t piece together why that was. When he could move enough to seize the sheaf of paper and read it, he did so… with a great deal of difficulty. He struggled to make the words mean anything more than painful echoes between his ears. It was all legal jargon that made his head begin to throb in misery.

.

**This receipt is to officiate the transaction stated herein. One Savari, Khajiit and Dragonborn, has lawfully paid dues and processing for adoption of two Nord children; Sissel and Britte, from their father Lemkil, Nord resident of Rorikstead. All legal responsibilities for the two named children are hereby transferred to Savari, for the sum of five hundred (500) Septims. Signatures below indicate acceptance of all parties to the terms stated.**

.

Lemkil saw his own drunken scrawl across the bottom, as well as Rorik’s and Jouane’s poncy, looping signatures, marking them as witnesses, and a sharp edged, almost claw-mark signature of Savari.

He re-read the paper. Then read it again. And again. Slowly, two bright points lit up in his sludge filled brain and connected. The house was silent because the children were not there. Money had been paid by the Khajiit to adopt his children. He struggled to remember the previous night’s events, but very little was coming through the heavy morass of pain. But there was a tiny drop of joy in his misery; the brats were gone! He felt his lip shift into a sneering smirk at the thought of the girls being put to proper use as labor for the Khajiit, before another throb of pain took it away. He couldn’t remember how it went down. The last thing he remembered was downing a generous tankard of his own special brew, and going to Frostfruit Inn.

When he was capable of staggering outside, everything seemed normal… other than the sun being far too bright. The only thing missing was the sight of his daughters running about the town. He drew water from the well and poured it over his head, then drank as much of the cool water as he could stomach, hoping that it would help him cleanse this hangover from his blood. It was rare that a Nord was ever truly hungover, but when they did, it was what the Imperials called a… humdinger… whatever that meant. But if a humdinger of a hangover existed, Lemkil was certain that he had it.

First things first… he needed to grab Mralki or Erik, and drag some answers from them. Details. He needed details, divines curse it! The gold was quite generous, there was no doubt about that, but he wanted to hear how the Khajiit had coerced the children into her cart. He remembered a plan… something about one of his relatives? Heh! Now that was a laugh! He had gone to the Frostfruit Inn last night; that would be where this started.

“Lemkil!” Mralki called, overly cheerfully, as soon as he was in the door, “Finally joining the land of the living, have you? So, what are your plans for that sack of Septims you made last night?”

Taken aback by Mralki’s forwardness, Lemkil paused, and then made his way over, “Tell me, Mralki… Last night is a… bit of a blur.”

The innkeeper’s eyebrows raised higher and higher with every sentence Lemkil uttered. “A blur? Lemkil, you only drank four bottles of mead, which is two bottles more than I prefer to serve you. You’ve drunk that amount before and remained quite lucid.”

Lemkil cleared his throat awkwardly and mumbled, “I ah… _Ahem_ … I might’ve… partaken in a... little extra on... on the side.”

Mralki scowled, “I limit your alcohol for a _reason_ , Lemkil. I know how you get when you’re drunk. _You_ know how you get when you’re drunk, for that matter.”

The farmer squirmed, then tried to get back on track, “So... er, that Khajiit paid me to give up my daughters? Took them off my hands legal and pretty? Come on man, give me details! I want to hear about the whole sordid affrair.”

Thunderclouds formed on Mralki’s forehead. “The Dragonborn did indeed take them, though I can’t say it was her idea at first. She was quietly eating a meal after resting. You remember how she saved that caravan from the Forsworn and a Hagraven? She was so exhausted that she slept until late afternoon yesterday, and had only just risen to eat something. You came in, demanded that I serve you, walked straight over to her and immediately started harping at her about your daughters.”

Lemkil was disturbed to note that though he couldn't remember much, every word Mralki said was ringing true in his hazy memories. He would have to partake in less of his brew from now on; the Innkeeper didn’t seem to be telling the story with as much relish as Lemkil would have been… but then again Mralki gave a crap about his own son.

Erik chimed in, “You tried to hire her to beat your children. She wanted nothing to do with it, but you were going on about how sick you were of them, and you were quite poisonous in tone. You told her how useless you thought they were, and that you had to put up with them until you shoved them off on a man. She offered to take them instead.”

Lemkil smirked to himself. “Well, well, well. Apparently I was rather clever in my inebriation, if I managed to manipulate a Khajiit into buying my children and tricking her into thinking it was all her own idea! Brilliant!”

“No.” Erik said coldly, “You were so incredibly eager to get rid of them that you practically thrust them on her. There was nothing brilliant about what you did.” The innkeeper’s son scowled at Lemkil. “I was sitting right here, right here in my favorite spot, as I always do,” Erik patted the legs of the stool he was sitting on, even now. “I was practically hanging over your shoulder, Lemkil. I heard every word. You were so soused that you could barely string three words together. I ran to get Jouane and Rorik. It was my hope that we could talk you out of it.”

“You were so eager that Erik didn't get back in time. The transaction was made,” Mralki told him. “She paid you all of her earnings from the caravan rescue… money that will buy you years of good, honest farm work from the right laborer. You even told her that you didn't want her to try to give them back. She promised not to.”

Lemkil’s head was slowly clearing, but a different kind of pain abruptly stung him. Never see them again? He should feel happy about that… right? The brats were gone! He was no longer responsible for them. He no longer had to waste his hard earned money on stupid toys or ridiculous dresses for them. They were growing like weeds, and it irked him deeply to have to buy them new things every few months as they grew out of them.

“Go talk to Jouane and Rorik, if you want to,” Erik’s voice grew as cold as his father’s, cutting into Lemkil’s confused musings. “I want _them_ to tell you what you did next, since it made me so angry that I cannot repeat it without wanting to punch you in the teeth.”

Lemkil slowly turned and left the inn. Angry? He had done something to make Erik furious with him? What had he done? The adventure hungry young man was always griping about how Lemkil was going to make his children hate him one day, but Lemkil had never cared about what the young fool had thought. It was strange though… he had never heard such… venom… in the young man’s voice before.

Jouane and Rorik were sitting on a bench in the shade, taking a break from the warm part of the day. Their friendly chit chat with one another abruptly cut off as Lemkil approached, and their faces turned to stone.

A growing sense of foreboding grew in Lemkil’s chest as he took in their expressions. From them, he learned that he had helped to pack up all of the children’s belongings himself and had come out to meet the carriage that the Khajiit had called for.

“You were so completely soused,” Jouane told him, “that you could barely stand upright. You bellowed at the top of your lungs, before the entire town, that you were ‘finally rid of those useless brats,’ and that you felt like you were ‘getting the better end of the deal.’ ”

“I… I was drunk,” Lemkil spluttered feebly, feeling the blood drain from his face. The whole town had heard him? Oh Gods, he had wanted it to be done quiet and on the sly. He hadn’t wanted the townsfolk to know until it was too late. “Surely I can’t be held to that…”

“Oh but you can,” Rorik cut in, his voice merciless. “Everyone heard you, Lemkil. _**Everyone!**_ The entire town stands before the gods as witnesses to what you said and did. By the Eight, Lemkil… You broke your daughter’s hearts! They both started sobbing and couldn’t stop!”

“Ennis made it a legally binding contract, since you were so eager to have done with your own flesh and blood.” Jouane crossed his arms and glowered at Lemkil from beneath his brows. “You eagerly signed all three copies. You have one, Savari has one, and one is in the hands of a courier, on his way to Dragonsreach. It’s probably already there. You got exactly what you wanted, and in doing so, lost what you had. And no one… no one at all, will feel the least bit sorry for you.”

Lemkil was speechless for the first time in his life. He turned slowly and walked back to his house. Alone at last, in a house that felt a little too big all of a sudden. As he stared at the empty wardrobes, he felt reality crashing down upon him. For a short time, he fought back against the growing sense of loss that began to well up inside him. What did he care if he never had to watch the girls grow into visions of their mother?

His... wife… The pain stung him again, sharper this time. His wife… the most wonderful woman in the world had died giving birth to the little piles of Skeever skat. They had killed her. So what if they were gone? So what if they were now slaves for the Dragonborn? He was happy now, Daedra curse it! But… his wife was dead, and he had sold his daughters to someone else. His daughters… the last link he had to his now deceased wife… were gone.

The black despair rolled over him like a winter flood; all ice and darkness. He was alone, well and truly alone. And he only had himself to blame.

.

The carriage gave a low, final creak as Gunjar brought it to a stop.

A soft sniffle and a hiccup from one of the girls broke the awkward silence as Savari pinched the bridge of her nose. The children had cried for nearly three hours straight, inconsolable and unwilling to accept Savari’s efforts to comfort them. They had finally run out of tears to shed only shortly before they pulled into the Dragonborn’s yard.

This was such a royal mess, she didn’t even know how to begin to address it. She knew that a drunk Nord could get loud and incredibly stupid… but she had underestimated just how low Lemkil would sink. The hatred he had to feel for his own flesh and blood, to so callously bellow his triumph in front of the children, was truly despicable.

“My thane?” The Khajiit looked up to meet Rayya’s curious gaze as the housecarl took in the state of the children and the haphazardly packed chests of belongings.

“Rayya,” Savai spoke quietly and with deep resignation, “This is…” She sighed deeply. “This is going to be a long couple of days, I fear. Would you be so kind as to take the children inside and… see about settling them in a bit while Gunjar and I bring in the luggage?”

The Redguard nodded, “Sounds like you’ve got quite the story to tell, my Thane.”

“It a long and… deeply troubling one. I’ll tell everyone later.”

‘Later’ came quickly, as the Khajiit carried the last chest indoors. Her husband, Inigo, and Rayya had apparently gotten the children to eat a small dinner with gentle efficiency. Both children’s eyes were still red, but they seemed to have gotten themselves under control.

The expectant silence that fell when the Khajiit returned to the dining room made her heart quail briefly. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked at the group. The children were staring at their plates. Inigo, Rayya, Gunjar and even Llewellyn, her hired bard, were all watching her solemnly.

Taking a deep breath, she started from the beginning: she detailed the rescue of the caravan and her fight with the hagraven. For the children’s sake, she left out the gory parts, and emphasized the thrill of the battle and the triumph of saving the caravaneers. Then she told them about resting at the Inn… and Lemkil’s attempt to get her to beat the girls.

Both girls drew back, fear in their eyes, and Savari hastened to assure them that she had no such intentions. She told them about how much Lemkil had complained about the girls, and they slowly nodded. The man’s dislike of the girls was at least well enough known that hearing that their father had spoken so ill of them to a stranger was no surprise.

“Lemkil was… well, he was deep enough in his cups that… selling you sounded like a good idea to him,” Savari hedged. “I had the coins from rescuing the caravan, and knew that if I paid him generously enough, he would hand you over to me. I know what he did to you,” Savari’s eyes flicked to Sissel’s left cheek, where a bruise still darkened her pale skin, “and I knew that if someone with less honor got a hold of you, your lives would have only gotten worse.”

Britte looked from one adult to the other, “So… So you…” she swallowed with difficulty, “own us now? Are we your… slaves?”

Savari’s ears flattened against her skull immediately, and her tail lashed to the left so sharply that Llewellyn jumped in surprise when it swatted against the backs of his legs. “No, no! Divines no!”

She grimaced an apology at her bard and got a small smile of forgiveness in return.

The Dragonborn closed the distance between herself and the girls in a few strides and knelt by them to bring her eyes on level with theirs, “Never. Your father may have been willing to sell you to someone he _thought_ was a slaver, but _I_ never deal in slaves. I am now your legal guardian… I’m… well I’m your new adoptive mother, if you’ll have me.”

“And I’m your new father,” Inigo stepped in.

Savari sent him a look of pure gratitude and relief. He smiled kindly in return, “My love, if your heart is big enough to take in children not of your own blood, who am I to deny it? I know all too well how important it is to have a place to call home. These girls need a family, and by every grain of sand in Elsweyr, we’ll give them a proper one.“

The two children watched their exchange, brows furrowed in confusion.

The Dragonborn’s face grew stern, cool blue eyes hardening into a no-nonsense expression, “Which reminds me… We need to talk, girls.”

The girls looked up, a spark of fear kindling in their gaze, eyes darting to the clawed, calloused hands that rested on the Khajiit’s knees as she knelt before them.

Savari’s ears lay back at the look, “Okay, we need to talk about _**more**_ than one thing…“ _By the Nine, this is difficult. I hope I can say the right things._ She took a deep breath and let it out. “Things… Things are about to change for you, in more than one way. The way things were… well… they’re not going to be that way anymore. Do you understand?“

Britte shook her head, puzzlement replacing fear as Savari took her hands in a gentle grip. Sissel was watching the Khajiit, far less afraid.

“The beatings are over. They’re done with. Children are not touched with intent to harm in my household. None will raise their hands to you anymore. But the opposite is also true. The bullying must stop. You both will be held accountable for your own actions. Britte, no more blaming Sissel for things you were meant to do. Sissel is your sister... Family…“ Savari felt a pang at the word, “Family looks out for one another. Family supports one another, and helps one another when they are in trouble. Take my word for it… as someone who lost two families in one lifetime.“

The little girl’s eyes widened as she processed the thought.

“Listen carefully Britte…“ Savari let go of the girl’s hands and lifted her chin with a single finger until the girl met the cool, serious gaze of the Khajiit, “No one wants to be friends with someone who hits others. If you must fight, fight to defend yourself, not because somebody said something that makes you mad. Knowing how to protect yourself is very different from trying to hurt someone ‘just because.’ Understand?“

Britte nodded.

She turned to Sissel, “This will go for you as well, girl. If I give you a responsibility, you must do it, preferably without having to be nagged. I will give you plenty of time to run and play… you are both children, after all. But it’s time you both learn some responsibility as well.”

Sissel nodded solemnly.

“Good. I’m glad we got that settled. Now, I have some sleep rolls that you can sleep in tonight. Tomorrow, I’m going to pay a visit to Falkreath and see about getting the two of you some proper beds. I think you two should get some sleep early. It has been an… emotional day.”

.

The Dragonborn gazed into the room where the children lay in their sleep rolls, faces slack with sleep. The dimmed lights softened the scene further.

The soft tread of Inigo’s feet heralded his approach, but she barely acknowledged him until he was right behind her, a clawed hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have sprung them on you,” Savari murmured.

Inigo purred a mild laugh and rested his chin on her other shoulder, joining her gaze upon the two girls, “I don’t know if I am all that upset… If I am to be surprised by my wife suddenly announcing that she is with children, I think I rather like the fact that the diaper phase is already long over with.”

Savari chuckled as well, and allowed the scarred warrior to draw her away from the bedroom and to their own bed. Alduin was gone, and she had a home, husband, and children to spend the rest of her days with now.

Life was good.


End file.
